Chocolate Milk
by Ahmerst
Summary: America wishes for a not so sucky tomorrow.


America stared at the night sky above him, the only things separating them a pane of glass and a whole lot of miles. More than America liked to think about. So he didn't. He dropped all thoughts from his head, made it as empty as the break room he was currently skulking around in, as empty as the conference building himself.

Everyone else had already left, murmuring to one another about dinner reservations and cabs they had to catch, their footsteps echoing in tandem as they made to beat the rush. Only America had stayed, having no one to dine with. Those he had asked already had plans, or had politely turned him down with mumbled apologies.

It was just him and the janitor now. The janitor that America had slipped twenty bucks to let him stay. The janitor who thought the twenty bucks meant that he was supposed to leave America alone, meant that he was not to show hide nor hair until America had left. America would have kept that money if he had known that would happen.

Not that he was particularly attached to the bill, but at least if he hadn't bribed the guy he might have hung around to hassle America into leaving. Any interaction would be good enough for America at the moment. He was sick and tired of feeling so alone every millisecond of every day.

Sure, he had neighbors and familiar faces he ran into at the store, certain cashiers he liked to stand in the line of, but none of them were his friends. He tried in the past to make them that, and it worked. For awhile. After a few years it was too hard to reason away his unlined features, his impossible youth. Everything else after that was a train wreck America had no interest in riding along with anymore than he had to.

It wasn't any easier being friends with a fellow nation, though. No one seemed able to look past policies and politics. Their minds constantly looking to the security of their own countries and what others were doing to threaten them, no matter how minor the slight. And they picked at him like vultures nipping at a dying beast. Pointing out clip-on ties were inappropriate, or that he needed more 'professional' shoes (America quite like the ones with wheels on the heels, thank you very much).

The low rumble of a passing plane drew America's attention back to the present. He shook his head and sighed, looking up to watch the plane pass overhead. The lights that lined it shone and blinked prettily in the darkness, like so many stars. Moving stars.

Shooting stars, even.

Before America could stop himself, he found himself wishing. _I wish tomorrow doesn't suck so hard,_ he said in his head. That was basic enough, he was sure. Nothing too far-fetched or impossible. It would be really hard to top off the suckage of today, what with how England was on him the entire meeting about not falling asleep. He hadn't even been dozing, only shutting his eyes for a few seconds at a time, which was apparently illegal these days.

America kinda hoped that whoever did the seating charts for tomorrow put him next to Russia. They usually didn't, as the results had gotten ugly in the past, but there was still the occasional person who wanted to see a bit of excitement during the meetings. The results these days could hardly be considered so.

As time rolled on, Russia and America had grown to tolerate each other, and had almost formed a kind of tentative friendship. Well, that might be fudging it a little, but America was a glass-half-full sort of guy. He liked the protection sitting next to Russia afforded him.

No one got on his case when he lay his head on the table then, or pointed out that he was doodling instead of taking proper notes. In fact, if America didn't know better he would have said Russia was encouraging him on all counts. When America put his head down, Russia would lean forward on his elbows, his frame obscuring America from a handful of niggling eyes. And when America's pens ran out of ink, another would mysteriously pop up.

And America had come to suspect that Russia hung around in the lobby for him, because more often than not America found himself in the same elevator. That morning he'd been running late, but as he bolted towards the closing doors of the elevator, Russia had already been in it, his hand reaching out to hold the door for America.

Maybe that wasn't even Russia. Maybe that was a machine they had made to take his place. A Robo-Russia. It was certainly well-mannered and quite considerate in a way that made America's heart beat a funny tango in his chest. He wasn't used to it, but he rather liked it.

At lunch time, America had tried to make the favor up to Russia by sitting with him (which was definitely not because he had no one to sit with himself). The cafeteria had been crowded with an amalgamation of secretaries and interns and people with snazzy suits but no real jobs to speak of.

Russia had managed to find himself a table all to his own. (That, or when he'd sat down, those eating had picked up their trays and left. America had seen it happen before.) The picture of goodwill, America had strode over with his tray in his hands, an extra carton of chocolate milk for Russia residing on it, and proceeded to sit straight across from Russia.

With an accusatory tone in his voice, Russia had asked, "Do you think you are being funny?"

America had stuttered out something along the lines of an apology and taken his tray, and now owner-less chocolate milk, elsewhere. When he'd finished eating, he gave a cursory glance around the cafeteria to see what was left of the crowd. Russia was still there, though his table seemed impossibly close from where it had been before, and he was dutifully eating his food.

When America passed by Russia on his way back to the conference room, he quietly handed the chocolate milk off to him. Russia was going to have to take America's gift, whether he liked it or not.

As another plane soared overhead, America wished that tomorrow, if anything, Russia and he could eat lunch together. Decided that counted towards making tomorrow not a sucky day, America figured that combined the two wishes into one, very-likely-to-happen wish.

So he started wishing on each plane he saw. It was a good thing the conference center was so close to the airport, because that gave him a lot of wishes. America decided that the key to not having a sucky tomorrow was going to depend on Russia, and since he'd already made one wish pertaining to him, America may as well stack those up as well.

No plane passed America without having a wish weighed onto it. He wished that Russia would smile at him, because Russia really did have a lovely smile, white as snow but sunny as a summer sky when it was genuine. Reflecting on that wish as another plane dipped low, America wished that the smile would be genuine. You had to be specific when it came to wishes, they were very finicky things.

He wished that Russia would let him stand a few inches closer, or even fist bump him (it was a long stretch, but America was a dreamer). He wished Russia would let America eat lunch with him, free of suspicion. He wished that someday Russia and he could do something, _anything_. Like go to the movies, or race go-karts, or watch a really sad ballet that made no sense (Russians liked that sort of thing, right?).

But most of all, America wished Russia and he could be friends. Real friends, too. Ones that enjoyed one another's company, no matter what they were doing. It had been so long since America had had a real friend. One that he could trust and love with all his heart with no fear of being rejected. It was what he wanted most of all.

The noise of the door's hinges creaking as it was eased open brought America out of his fanciful wishing.

"I'll be out in a second, I promise," America said to the janitor as he fished for a few more bills in his pocket.

"There is no need to hurry. The nice man with the mop said we could stay as long as we'd like."

America spun around in an instant, his eyes going wide in shock at the sound of the familiar voice. Russia stood in the doorway, a white bag with familiar golden arches in one hand, a drink in the other. America watched in a shocked sort of awe as Russia set the bag and the drink on the single, long table in the room. Taking his silence as a question, Russia set to explaining himself.

"I saw your car was still in the parking lot," he said. "I thought you might be working late." He stared at his shoes for a second. "And perhaps hungry."

America's heart started up its tricky little tango, and a surge of warmth spread throughout his body. Words escaped him, the emotions that flooded through him infinitely more profound than any language could express.

"I hope you do not mind if I eat with you." Russia was rummaging in the bag, doling out the goodies to separate seats that sat side by side. When he'd set the table to his liking, America's sanctioned area being decorated with burgers and fries and a tall drink, and his own area populated by a single burger, he pulled his drink out of the bag.

It was a very familiar looking carton of chocolate milk.

As another plane soared through the air, its lights blinking beautifully in the darkness of the night, America made one last wish as he went to Russia, his steps light and his arms spread open. He wished that he could hug Russia without being pushed away, and, though he knew he was asking for much too much already, that maybe, maybe maybe _maybe_, Russia would hug him back.

His wish was granted.

* * *

A/N:

-And there it is! This oneshot was writting for Gutennachte of livejournal as a pinch hit for the Russia/America's Secret Santa Exchange. The prompt was to write something from America's POV inspired by the chorus of the song Airplanes. The chorus goes like this:

Can we pretend that airplanes  
In the night sky  
Are like shooting stars  
I could really use a wish right now

- I promise so hard to have a Companion update next week. It's actually all ready to go now, but I'm waiting until the usual Wednesday time to post it.


End file.
